


Heroes

by Ms_Tassimo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Cas as a handyman, F/M, Fear of Discovery, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Homophobic Sam, I'm just adding these as I go, Kink Meme, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sam is a Little Shit, Top Castiel, Top Dean, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Tassimo/pseuds/Ms_Tassimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester; war veteran, alcoholic, complete mess. In that order. </p><p>It's been six, long months since Dean has returned from the war. And in those six months, he has successfully distanced himself from just about everyone. Cut off from the life he used to have and reluctant to invest in a future he can't see himself having, Dean can feel himself spiralling towards destruction. </p><p>But as he's about to learn, the past has a way of biting him in the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Poppy

**Author's Note:**

> Fic fill to this prompt [here](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/100932.html?thread=38446148)
> 
> This is my first fic fill, so...don't be too harsh! I'm not promising to be the best writer, but...let's see what my rusty brain can churn out.

1966

Dean wakes as he does every morning these days; with a sharp jolt and a brief panic about where he is. The sound of gunfire and shells raining down on his head rings in his ears, once-bright green eyes widening in undiluted terror. He goes to shout, to cry out, pray for mercy like he did so many times before until-

He sees the pale cream walls and the simple picture of a poppy hanging there. He smells the soft scent of whatever Jess washes the laundry with, which he inhales desperately in order to calm his trembling self. He hears the gentle lull of the sea outside the open window, waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, and the sound of hushed murmurs in another part of the house. And Dean knows that he’s safe. He knows that he is no longer there but here. 

He presses his back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to even his breathing out. It sounds kinda morbid, but it’s the routine he’s fallen into over the last few months; wake up, panic, calm down. It’s familiar, and for Dean, familiarity is hard to come by. Given that it’s taken him this long to actually manage any form of sleep – albeit, with sleeping pills prescribed by his psychiatrist – he can deal with the excruciating nightmares that plague his mind each night.

He knows that he should probably get up and show face; Jess says it’s a good idea for him to get into a routine, but he knows that routine he’s following isn’t the one that she had in mind. 

Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the pain that shoots up his right leg, and rubs his face tiredly. His cheeks are warm to touch, and his hair is mussed with frantic sleep. He wonders briefly if he should just cut it off, a nod to his days in the military. But he thinks this with a pang of guilt and pushes it to the back of his mind; no good came from living in the past.

For a minute Dean really does contemplate going back to sleep, but he pushes himself to his feet and pads towards the door, pulling it open and letting the flood of a busy household wash over himself. His stick is propped against the doorframe, and he wraps his hand around it grudgingly.

Etta James plays over the wireless, and he has no doubts that Jess is dancing around the kitchen as best as her pregnancy will allow her, Sam pretending to read the paper but secretly revelling in the life that he now has. 

Dean shouldn’t be jealous of his younger brother; God knows, he put in the work to get to where he is today. Stanford was just the first step, and he’s so fucking proud of Sam for being so successful at his law firm. But, damn, if Dean’s younger self could see where he was, he’d probably turn a gun on his head to spare himself the shame.

“Morning, Dean!” Jess trills, pouring batter into the frying pan. “Pancakes?” Dean makes a non-committal noise; he’s not good at talking until he’s had at least three cups of coffee. He passes Sam, who’s reaching for Jess to pull her in for a goodbye kiss.

“You sleep well, Dean?” Sam asks, pressing his lips to the golden crown of Jess’ head. That routine that they have? Every freaking morning, Sam asks if he’s had a good sleep. And it’s the same answer every day.

“No,” Dean replies shortly, making himself a cup of coffee. “No, I didn’t.”

“But your therapist gave you new pills-” Jess starts.

“And they don’t work,” Dean says without looking at her. He probably sounds a little harsh; sure, he can take that. But damn, it gets old getting asked the same questions. He should be grateful, he guesses; Sam pays for his therapist amongst other things. But it’s freaking embarrassing to rely on his little brother for everything. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jess and Sam exchange looks, but thankfully, neither of them say anything. Instead, Sam kisses Jess once more and bids goodbye to Dean, disappearing out the front door for work. 

Dean feels himself relax slightly; it’s always so much easier to be in the house with Jess. With Sam, it always feels likes he’s comparing Dean to the person he was before the war. There are so many things different about him that the only time Sam had broached the subject, Dean had bitten his head off. So they said nothing about the person he used to be. Instead, they tiptoe around the person Dean is now. 

But with Jess, there’s none of this. Sam met and married Jess whilst Dean was in Vietnam. And whilst Dean was a little hurt that he didn’t get to see Sam on the big day, he had to say that Sam had chosen well. 

“So, what’re we doing today?” Jess asks, sitting down at the table with a stack of pancakes. Dean has to hand it to her; he had never met a broad who could eat like a guy, but damn, Jess gave everyone a run for their money. It was refreshing, he found; Sam revelled in his salads and healthy eating, and Jess ate whatever was put in front of her, waving it off as being appreciative of all foods and not being able to afford being fussy.

Dean knows what that feels like.

“I dunno,” Dean mumbles, sitting down across from her, suddenly wishing he’d grabbed his painkillers while he was on his feet. “Thought I’d go down the bar and-”

“Or you could come grocery shopping with me?” Jess provides, smiling sweetly at him, her lips sticky with maple syrup. Dean groans internally, shaking his head in disbelief. No matter how many times she insisted that Dean stick to a routine, she couldn’t quite accept that a huge part of Dean’s routine – the best part, he would argue – was sitting down at the bar on the corner of Main Street and getting blindingly drunk on scotch. In there, he was a hero, and it didn’t take long for the drinks to come rolling in exchange for stories about his time in Vietnam. 

But Jess looks at him with huge blue eyes, and Dean’s not sure if he can stomach making her cry again – it was one time, and he felt awful about it, but how was he supposed to know that telling her about the time he hit a deer with his car would reduce her to a sobbing mess? 

He was just grateful that Sam found it funny, rather than irritating.

“You’d probably be faster without me,” Dean suggests tentatively, drawing rings on the wooden table with his finger tip. Everything in his house is fancy. It’s as far away from the motel rooms he and Sam grew up in as possible. And Dean thinks that’s kinda the point. The surfaces are shiny and new, the floors lined with black and white linoleum. It’s spacious and grand and it’s the sort of house that Dean saw in movies rather than real life. 

“It’ll be fun!” Jess exclaims, although both of them know that grocery shopping is not fun. “Please, Dean; I can’t lift all the bags.”

This time, Dean’s groans are external, because he knows that turning down his pregnant sister-in-law is only going to aggravate Sam. And with the level of annoyance he seems to be generating for his brother at the moment, Dean is keen to avoid anything like that. So, he heaves himself to his feet, grabbing his stick and crossing the floor (and damn, was that shit slippery; it’s only a matter of time before he and his walking stick go crashing to the ground) towards the medicine cabinet. There’s not much in there, other than the household essentials – there’s a basic First Aid kit and some standard pain reliefs on the top shelf, dusty and barely used, and a couple of boxes of Jess’ prenatal vitamins.

The lower shelf is dedicated to Dean’s medications – his sleeping pills, his anti-anxiety meds, his strong pain killers for his legs… Sometimes, he forgets what he’s taking them for, and falls into yet another routine of just knocking back his daily cocktail. He tries not to think about it too much, lest he remember what his father said about men who wander around heavily medicated.

“Meet you in the hall in, say, twenty minutes?” Jess says, drifting past him to her and Sam’s bedroom. Dean grunts in response, waiting until she’s gone before limping towards his own room, wanting to spare himself the shame of not being able to walk properly, despite the fact that Jess has been there since day one of his injury. 

It was of course her idea that he seek rehabilitation for it; neither Sam nor Dean were clued up about what normal people did to treat injuries. Even so, it was hard to be rehabilitated when all Dean wanted to do was sit in a corner and get steadily drunker as the day went by. At least when there was alcohol flooding his system, he forgot about the pain in his leg and the demons in his head. 

Once Dean has tugged his clothes on – and man, was it good to be back in the clothes he wore before he left; there was something comforting about seeing himself back in his old flannel shirts and battered leather jacket, like he was himself again – he makes his way into the hallway to wait for Jess, who wanders out looking like she’s about to go to some dance. 

His sister-in-law is pretty; Dean’s not about to deny that. Her blonde hair is teased into a beehive, a lilac hair band securing it in place, and she wears a matching, simple dress. Despite being six months pregnant, Jess seems determined not to fall into the category of a dowdy housewife. 

“You ready?” she asks, reaching for her purse. Dean nods tiredly, holding the door open for her as she picks up her keys. That’s another thing that Dean hates about his leg; his inability to drive. He had tried it once, a few months back, when Jess had been on a mission to get him back on track as quickly as possible. It quickly became apparent, however, that he was far away from being safe behind the wheel. 

Since then, his progress with living a normal life has stalled considerably.

Dean remains silent as they made their way into town; Jess and Sam live on a house perched on the edge of a cliff, with a sweeping garden that curves back onto a set of precarious wooden steps. At the bottom, a small fisherman’s cottage sits hidden in the rocks, sheltered enough to be out of the wind, but close enough for the tide to almost lick its doorstep at the right time. Sometimes Dean wondered what it would be like to live down there, to be so isolated from society that the sea would soon become a comrade, and the gulls above the only indication that there was still life out there.

In his darkest days, Dean wondered how long it would take for the police to find a body if he died in there.

“What do you need?” Dean asks, trying to shake himself from the macabre thoughts that were threatening to trickle into his mind. Groceries, Dean, focus on the groceries.

“Just some stuff for dinner,” Jess says, shrugging her shoulders as she turned down the road that would lead them towards the High Street. “Thought I’d make meat loaf.” She parks the car, getting out and hesitating as he watches Dean struggle to extract himself from the passengers’ seat. She had made the mistake of trying to help Dean before and she was not going to make the same error again.

If Dean had been in sound of mind, he’d have felt a flurry of guilt for what he had put his family through the last few months; the mood swings, the abusive language, the wake ups in the early hours of the morning when he came stumbling in from the bar…he could make a list but he’d be there a while.

“Oh, Dean!” Jess says suddenly, her eyes widening. For a moment, Dean’s heart’s in his mouth, gripping his stick tightly at the sudden change in Jess’ entire manner. His eyes flit about, his entire body rigid and ready to go into combat whenever they make an appearance. 

“I said I’d drop in and see Nancy Blewitt’s baby!”

Relief washes over Dean, and he can’t even bring himself to be irritated by Jess’ rather panic-inducing excitement. He claws back to reality, focusing on Jess and her happiness and her safety rather than the thumping in his head that came with a flashback.

“Oh yeah?” He has no idea who Nancy Blewitt is. It’s the kinda name he’d have made fun of in high school. Blewitt. 

“Yeah, I- Oh, you can go ahead and start on the grocery shopping if you’d like! Don’t feel like you have to come along!”

Dean rubs the back of his neck tiredly, already heading towards the small store that looked out of place in all the rather rustic-looking buildings. The bell jingles cheerfully as he pushes the door open, and his eyes immediately swivel to the liquor stand to the back of the store. If Jess is going to be a while, then maybe he could just-

Dean’s mouth goes slack, eyes widening in a mixture of horror and hope as he focuses on the man at the checkout. He’s tall and broad shouldered, back straight and his entire stature commanding the utmost respect. Dean cannot hear what’s been said to the cashier, but he knows that the voice speaking will be deep and rumbling.

And Dean knows, that when this man inevitably turns around to face him, he’ll see the brilliant, electric blue eyes, and the strong, chiselled jaw that Dean’s ki-

“Hello, Dean.”

“C-Cas,” Dean manages to say, silently berating himself for his voice wavering. He knows that it’s hoarse now, deeper than it was when he was fighting. Screaming does that to a person. Dean appreciates the fact that there are many things about himself that will never be the same again. Like the constant tremor in his hands and the pain in his hip that requires him to use a damn stick everywhere he goes. 

But he was never weak. His voice never trembled, his resolve never cracked. Winchesters’ were never weak and Dean is no exception. So he feels slightly ashamed that he says Cas’ name like he’s some infatuated school girl. Because that’s not how he feels. Not in the slightest.

“I didn’t realise you were living here,” Dean states, trying to claw back his pride. Cas merely nods, dark hair still cropped short from his time in the army. They stand there, Dean waiting for Castiel to reply to him, trying to ignore the hurt rising in the pit of his stomach at the stoic silence that Castiel is subjecting him to. 

“I needed a fresh start,” Castiel says in a clipped tone. “It’s quiet here.”

It’s Dean’s turn to nod, completely understanding; there was no way that either of them could ever live in the bustling city again. The noise and the people and the confined spaces equalled hell for men who had spent months listening to loud bangs. Castiel had mentioned, briefly, he had family that lived in some city Dean had never even heard of.

There’s a pregnant pause between the two, neither knowing what to say to one another, when there was so much to say to each other. The conversation seems too strained and too difficult to keep up. Suddenly, the bell of the shop chimes, and Dean starts suddenly, only to hear Jess’ voice behind him.

“Dean? I don’t want to rush you or any-” Jess appears at his elbow, looking between Dean and Castiel curiously. Dean looks down at her, seeing Cas’ eyes narrow slightly out of the corner of his eye. 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, “yeah, I’m coming.” He looks back to Castiel, who is no longer looking at Dean, but at Jess and her swollen stomach. 

“Do you know each other?” Jess asks curiously. Before Dean can answer, Castiel extends his arm and shakes Jess’ hand once, offering her a strained smile. Dean wonders if it’s only strained because Cas hasn’t had much to smile about in a long, long time.

“Castiel Novak,” he says, his eyes fixed on Jess’ face. “Dean and I were in the same regiment.” 

“Oh, wow,” Jess murmurs, “pleasure to meet you.” Dean can feel her glance at him, but he’s suddenly enamoured with the selection of canned items to his right. “Dean doesn’t really like to talk about…what happened.”

Jess obviously tries to word it kindly, but Dean can feel himself wilt. He feels like a coward, a lowly coward who couldn’t hack the fighting, despite the fact he fought with the best of them. No Winchester ever gave up, and neither did he. But under Castiel’s penetrating gaze he suddenly feels like the inexperienced soldier that he was first deployed.

Castiel clears his throat, his eyes clouding over slightly. 

“No, well…it’s a bit of a conversation stopper, isn’t it?” he says wryly. “If you excuse me, I have some more errands to run before it gets dark.” Castiel begins to slip past Dean, slyly pushing a piece of paper into Dean’s hand. Dean’s eyes widen, but he refrains from looking at the piece of paper until he’s safely home after getting Jess’ groceries. He shuts himself up in his room – “Jess, I’m not feeling great; I think I’ll go for a nap or something.” – and unfolds the miniscule scrap.

It’s an address, scrawled in neat sloping handwriting, on the other side of town. Dean has no idea how Castiel had time to write it but nevertheless, Dean lets out a shaky breath. He’s not sure what to do with this. He’s not even sure if he wants to see Castiel at all. Sure, knowing that he was alive was great and all, but this…this was too real. As though the past was trying to capture him again. Suffocate him with the knowledge that he definitely couldn’t push what had happened to the back of his mind. 

Instead, Dean sits on his bed, his eyes darting between the piece of paper and the wall. He wasn’t going to bow to Cas’ every whim, he told himself vehemently. Just because the guy had showed up in the same town (and Christ, wasn’t that just the biggest coincidence ever) didn’t mean that they had to speak to each other. No, Dean Winchester could not care less about the presence of Castiel Novak. 

Then again, they had so much to talk about, namely what had happened in the months after Dean’s departure from the country. Because there had been barbed words instead of a goodbye, cruel jibes that Dean wishes-

Well, what did it matter now?

He was definitely not living in the past. Absolutely not.

***

Dinner is a quiet affair. Platonic conversation about Sam’s day at work, murmurings about how good dinner was, despite Dean’s knowledge that Jess had gone for a nap and woke up at half five, panicked and thrown together whatever she could find, despite her insistence that day that she was going to make a dinner to make all dinners wilt. 

Dean smiles at the thought.

“You go down to Benny’s Bar?” Sam asks once the plates are empty. Dean can feel himself getting defensive, leaning back in his chair with a grimace on his face. There’s a huge contrast between him and Sam, and at the moment it’s startlingly obvious – Sam in his expensive suit, his crisp shirt and his now loosened tie, and Dean sitting slumped in his seat in his flannels. He wasn’t exactly squeaky clean before he joined the military but he would be the first to admit that his habits now are exacerbated.

“No, he went grocery shopping with me,” Jess replies for Dean firmly, casting Sam a Look. “Actually, we met someone who used to be in the same- what’s it called, Dean? Oh, regiment!”

Sam looks surprised by this, dark eyebrows shooting up slightly.

“Oh?”

Dean shrugs, glancing around the room.

“Castiel…Novak, I think it was?” Jess looks to Dean for clarification, to which Dean nods, his eyes suddenly focused on Sam’s reaction. His younger brother’s expression hardens, as though hearing this news displeases him greatly. For once, Dean’s unsure of what’s causing his brother’s displeasure, but he’s uncomfortably aware that Jess is paddling through dangerous waters.

“Were you good friends?” Jess asks, leaning her head on her hand. 

“We, um, we talked a bit, yeah,” Dean replies, his eyes still on Sam. “To be honest, Jess, we weren’t exactly there to make friends.”

“Oh no, yeah, of course,” Jess says, nodding her head quickly. “Sorry. I’m not…I’m not really sure how it all works out there. Do you get close to people?”

Dean’s mind flashes to the men he spent months with, the relationships he had built with people who varied in personality and nature. It was hard not to get attached to them, and Dean could acutely remember thinking that this was his place, that this life was definitely the life he wanted to live in. For the first time in his life, Dean had friends. 

“Yeah, you get close to them.” Dean nods, more to himself than to Jess. 

“It must be hard then,” Jess murmurs, “some of them not coming ba-”

“Jess,” Sam says sharply, casting his wife a frown. “I’m not sure this is the place to talk about things like this.” He gets to his feet, throwing his dishes into the sink and wordlessly leaving the room. Dean hears him stomp to his study and slam the door shut, evidently wanting to have his temper tantrum in peace.

It was strange; not even as a child had Sam acted like that. Yeah, there had been times where he’d been a pain in the ass, and Dean would be the first to testify that. But damn, maybe Dean wasn’t the only one who had changed.

“He’s really stressed at work at the moment,” Jess breathes, putting her own dishes into the sink. “They’re cutting a lot of staff and he’s got so much riding on him what with the baby.” She presses her upper teeth into her lower lip worriedly. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out but…he doesn’t mean to be rude, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean mumbles from his seat, even though he doesn’t know. All he knows is that in the course of a day, his life has veered in a completely different direction. And he’s not sure if that’s a good one.


	2. The Stranger

1965

Castiel is no stranger to the military. His father, his brothers and now, himself, are all within the ranks. But he likes to think that there is something that sets him apart from his, frankly, bloodthirsty relatives. He’s not sure what that something is; he just knows that the career in which he has found himself is not his defining point. Sure, he’s a Novak, and he’s worked hard to be where he is today. But it’s not something he screams from the rooftop. Sure, he moved quickly through the ranks and was his mother’s not-so-secretly pride and joy, but at the end of the day, Castiel found himself wishing that he had chosen another path. One that didn’t necessarily mean trudging up a mountain with the weight of a child on his back. His feet ache and his body hurts and he’s slick with sweat but Castiel pushes on, by no means the fastest at this exercise but definitely not falling behind. 

The Lieutenant stands at the top of the mountain, shouting a rather harsh version of encouragement, Castiel thinks, his chest tightening with each step that he takes. He tries to think of the bitterly cold winters he’d spend in the country, the snowball fights he’d have with his brothers when they actually liked each other. His mother watching from the window with her carbon copy, Anna. A time when Castiel’s family was, well, intact. 

Shit. He’d managed to turn a cooling technique into a rather bitter vision of his fractured family. Nevertheless, he finds himself reaching the top of the mountain, his breaths coming to him in laboured huffs, head tilted back as the sun kissed his face in congratulations. Castiel flopped on a rock, tugging the bag from his shoulders and feeling the quaking relief wash over him. There’s a definite feeling of accomplishment, accompanied by a rather stinging sensation within his boots. Damn, he’d have some impressive blisters in the morning. He roots about in his bag for his bottle of water. It’s not there. It’s not freaking there. He’s got miles to go and there’s no water to battle the intense heat with.

Just as he’s wondering what he can do (he can’t exactly go crying to the Lieutenant about not remembering water), the sun momentarily disappears, and he’s forced into a semi-darkness. Castiel looks up, frowning slightly as he takes in the shadowed figure standing above him. 

The soldier is tall, maybe a little taller than Cas, with wide-set shoulders, khaki t-shirt straining against muscles that were definitely not gained as a first time enlister. His lips curl in a smirk, lighting up a tanned face, accentuating the sharp cheekbones and strong chin. Castiel struggles to remember the last time he saw someone…so put together. This man stood like he had a purpose, his eyes focused on Cas, and Cas alone. How he’s never seen this man, or noticed him in all these weeks of training, is beyond him. Surely he’d have realised there was someone like- 

Castiel feels his heart flutter slightly. And quickly admonishes himself for it. He puts it down to the heat and the lack of water. He’s tired and probably delusional. 

“You forgot your water?” His voice is deep, as though it comes from the very pit of his chest. Castiel nods, hoping that his cheeks are red enough from the walk for this man not to notice that he’s flushing rather a lot. Wordlessly, the strange soldier reaches over to his pack, tugging out a metal bottle and thrusting it into Cas’ limp hands. 

“Wouldn’t make that mistake again, rookie.”

Cas frowns, stung slightly. He thinks about rejecting the offered water to spite the man but quickly realises that this would be counter-productive. Grudgingly, he furls his fingers around the water bottle and takes it from the stranger. Cold liquid hits the back of his throat and Cas is suddenly very glad he took the drink.

“You’re too kind to the kids, man,” Lieutenant Maine calls over, shaking his head. It doesn’t surprise Cas that the ethereal-looking man is higher than a Private; both seem very self-assured in themselves, and it would explain why Cas has never seen him before – Maine is higher ranking, which means that the green-eyed man, must be too. “They’re not gonna learn anything!” The guy shrugs, looking back over his shoulder.

“They’re not gonna learn anything if they’re passed out from the heat either!” he hollers back. He turns back to Cas, his hand outstretched for the now-half filled bottle. Cas slips it into his hand, determinedly not looking at the guy’s face. He hates being treated like a child. His brothers do it and his father is also guilty of it. He feels belittled, completely small and quite frankly, mortified that this man sees him as little more than some rich kid wanting to play the hero. 

“Winchester,” the man says coolly. “Dean. Hear you’re Michael’s little brother.” Castiel can feel his cheeks flush at the recognition, but his stomach churns with dread. There is a lot to live up to being Michael Novak’s little brother, but at the same time, everyone knows they’re related. It’s not like the surname Novak is particularly common. Dean eyes him with interest, curious and wide as he takes Cas in, who tries not to notice how alert his body is to the attention. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Cas mumbles, pulling himself to his feet. He tries to haul his bag over his shoulder, but stumbles. God, would the embarrassment never end? Dean smiles faintly, helping the smaller man pick up the bag which was probably the same weight as Cas is, swinging it onto the boy’s shoulder without difficulty. 

“Guess you’re a little different from your brother,” Dean supplies, looking him up and down. Cas can’t help but notice that he’s not saying it an judging or malicious way, just in the tone of voice that one might use when making an educated observation. The knowledge that he’s not being ridiculed for not living up to Michael cools the heat that Cas could feel in the base of his stomach.

“Yeah, people say that.” Cas would like to say that Dean laughed at his joke, that he found it really funny and witty and they became good friends at that point. But Dean merely stares at him rather stoically, eyebrow arched and absolutely, a hundred percent, not finding Cas’ humour amusing.

“Remember your water next time, kid,” Dean says, returning back to his group of…God, did men even have friends in this place? Was that a thing? Nevertheless, Cas hears Lieutenant Maine tell Dean he’s too soft with the rookies, that it’s survival of the fittest out there, and that having a heart will get people killed. He can’t hear Dean’s response, and after the words said about Michael, he thinks that’s probably a good thing. 

That night, falling into bed is heaven for Castiel – if he thought his body ached after the climb up the mountain, it has nothing on the burning pain that shoots up inside of him every time he takes a simple step forwards. His muscles feel like they’re on fire, and his hands are red raw from hauling himself up net after net as they put the new recruits through assault courses. He noticed that De- Winchester and Maine watched the whole time. Cas wasn’t sure what their roles were, and he didn’t know how long either of them had been in the military, but they didn’t even flinch when asked to observe the new recruits struggle with launching themselves at climbing walls and wriggling under nets in the mud. 

It was Castiel’s idea of hell, basically. There was dirt under his nails, in places that he didn’t even know he could get dirt in. And that meant going to the shower block, and that meant being surrounded by other, sweaty men, and Castiel isn’t sure he can deal with that after the long day he’s had. So he sits on his bunk, feeling the dirt permeate through his pores and lets out a soft groan. 

This had been a bad idea. All of this. There was no way he could make it as a soldier, let alone fight in a war. For a minute, he wishes he was Gabriel; too young to fight and therefore free to do whatever he wanted, wherever he’d wanted. There were talks before Cas left, of him going to college, and it makes Cas’ stomach churn with envy. He had wanted to go to college. He had wanted to disappear, reinvent himself and do art from dawn till dusk. That was his dream. And now he could feel it being snatched from his grasp by this stupid, damn war.

He wonders if Michael ever felt this way, and then chastises himself. Of course Michael hadn’t ever felt this way. He and Michael are so damn polar opposite, Castiel sometimes wondered if they were actually related. He wouldn’t even have put it past his mother to have some sordid affair; maybe Cas had a whole other family out there, creative and out there just like he was. And then reality hits him senseless. If he spent as much time training and focusing on becoming a half good soldier, as he did fantasising about a world where he felt accepted, he’d probably do an okay job at the shit that he was going to have to do day in and day out. 

But still he wondered if there was any hope. Because some small part of Cas, possibly the realist in him, had already cottoned on to the fact that he may not be coming home. This…resentful thought process might all be in vein, because he might not be coming home.

Cas scrunches his eyes shut quickly, trying hard not to think about it. Because God, if he hadn’t been scared then, he was terrified now.

***

1966

Dean does nothing with the address for the first week. Instead, he spurns Jess’ suggestions that he gets out there and does something with his days, in favour of going down Benny’s, where he nurses a couple of drinks before moving onto the harder stuff. If Benny is concerned at all, he doesn’t show it, remaining impassive as he passes drinks over the bar to Dean, as he steadily gets drunker and drunker. It’s funny; alcohol is a better painkiller than the ones he knocks back each morning. His thoughts seem to slip into nothingness; a dark cavern that he can lock away until soberness hits. When he’s intoxicated, he’s at his happiest. Why would anyone suggest that this is a bad way to spend his life? Just…why? Surely the people who want him to be happy could understand this?

Apparently not though.

He thinks of Cas. He thinks about the differences in the cold figure he met in the store, and the man he knew out there. And he wants to know what had happened in the few months that they had been separated. Because the Castiel he had left, had still been the one who was head over heels in love. And while Dean appreciated that their goodbye could have been so much different (God, it killed him to think about it, even now), he was sure that that couldn’t have been the reason for such a 180 in Cas’ personality.

“You havin’ another, Brother?”

“Why the fuck not?” 

Dean watches as the glass gets filled with amber liquid, Benny’s hand slow and methodical and stopping just at the right moment. Dean’s world lurches, but not uncomfortably. He supposes that his body has built up a resistance to the alcohol he seems to consume on a daily basis. It probably gets confused on days he doesn’t fill it with toxins. Before the military- hell, even when he was in Vietnam, he had a steady nicotine habit. Cigarettes were his downfall, until he moved in with Jess and Sam who fundamentally told him that he wasn’t allowed to smoke. He had relented on that one, purely because he didn’t need a reason for them to kick him out so early in the recovery process.

So he had substituted his love of cigarettes to an unrequited love of alcohol. 

When Dean finds the bottom of the glass, he promises himself that the next one will be the last before stumbling home to Jess and Sam’s. After the third, he resolutely promises that he’ll leave the bar and head back. Only, by the third, he’s on the floor, finding refuge there before an uneasy haze settles over him, and his eyes fall shut and demons dance behind his eyelids, coaxing Dean towards them. They cast shadows in Dean’s mind, taunting him with the faces he had seen the light disappear from. They crook their finger at him, pulling strings of the bodies as though they are puppets. He wants to shout, he wants them to give his comrades back, but the words die in his throat. His lips feel sewn together, and as much as he tries to prise them apart, they remain stuck. 

They hiss at them, they scream with blackened mouths, they shout his name like-

“Fuck’s sake, Dean.”

Dean blinks awake, his vision swimming as he attempts to get some bearing on where he is. He can feel strong arms pulling him up, dragging him along a floor that is…slightly jagged? The arms stop for a moment, the owner huffing out a breath as the squeak of a car door jerks Dean out of his drink fuelled slumber.

“Sammy?” he slurs, tilting his head back to look at the furious face of his brother. Sam’s dark eyes glare down at him, a deep set line settling between his eyebrows. Dean wants to tell him that he’ll get wrinkles doing that, but the words get jumbled in the journey from his head to his mouth, so all that comes out is a lazy grunt. He’s too confused to realise he’s literally in the gutter, his head resting against the side of Sam’s fancy pants car. 

“Get in the fucking car, Dean,” Sam snaps, nudging- no, kicking Dean in the ribs to get him to move. Dean lets out a small whine, curling into himself in defence. He doesn’t want to be kicked. He doesn’t want to be touched or prodded. He doesn’t want them to shoot him. Dean pulls his hands over his head, trying to make himself as small as possible, desperation clawing at the forefront of his mind because, hell, they’re going to fucking see him. They’ve got guns and if they see him, Dean, they’re going to shoot him. 

“S-Sam,” Dean tries to say, gripping the bottom of Sam’s suit trousers with a vice-like grip. “Ge’ down!”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, not now.”

Dean feels Sam grab hold of him, this time by the collar of his jacket, attempting to haul him into the car. Dean struggles, his shirt cutting into his throat, preventing him from breathing. Oh God, they had found him. They were trying to strangle him. They got him in his sleep, at his most vulnerable, and now he was going to die. He cries out, kicking his legs in a desperate attempt to free himself. He hears a grumble as Sam finally gets him into the car, and Dean hits his head off the gearstick. 

He’s been shot! Dean presses his hand to his forehead, rocking backwards. He can feel the blood beneath his fingers, the hole where the bullet went in. His already limited vision starts to darken and he tries to hold on – someone has to come, some has to come save him. Dean looks ahead, and he can see…he can see Castiel, right in front of him, close enough to touch. Gone is the miserable, angry man he saw a few weeks ago, and in his place is Dean’s Cas. He’s younger and he’s smiling in that coy little way he would save for Dean. His hair is messy and all over the place, face free from any blood or dirt. He’s just there, perfect and beautiful.

Dean tries to tell him to run. Castiel needs to get out of here or they’re going to shoot him too, but all that comes out is a garbled moan. His head aches but he tries to focus on Castiel’s grinning face, looming closer and closer. No, he needs to get out of here!

The door of the car slams, and Dean lets out a scream, Castiel falling to a crumpled heap on the ground. He tries to scramble, tears pooling in his eyes because, fuck, Cas is hurt and he’s not sure if he can get him breathing again and supplies are so limited out here. And, wait, is Dean moving? No, he needs to stay with Castiel. But if Dean had been in coherent mind, he’d realise that the car was simply lurching into life, Sam driving them back to the house with a look of utter disgust on his face. Dean cries and whimpers in the foot well of the passenger seat, clutching his head and calling for a person whose name Sam cannot discern. 

By the time they reach the dirt track that leads up to the house, Dean has fallen asleep again, twitching every now and again. For once, it’s a dreamless sleep, his fingers furled around the edge of the seat, as though he’s gripping Castiel’s hand.


	3. The Cottage

Chapter 3:  
1966:

The next morning, there’s an unsettled atmosphere in the house. Dean can feel it in the air as he watches Jess do her normal routine of cooking breakfast, her movements jittery and unsure. Sam sits at the head of the table, glaring down at his newspaper. Dean swallows, looking down at his plate, the smell of the bacon making him want to hurl into the nearest trashcan. He’s not overly certain what he had done last night – hell, he’d woken up with a headache, a glass of water and a couple of Advil on his bedside cabinet, and could remember very little of the previous night. But now he’s pretty sure he’s fucked up, and he can’t do anything to make his brother look at him.

In fact, he doesn’t even say goodbye to Dean as he leaves for work; he kisses Jess’ cheek, murmurs that he’ll be back at six, and then heads out as though Dean doesn’t even exist. 

Instead of asking Dean what he’d like to do today, Jess says nothing. She disappears outside to put the laundry on the line without so much as a glance. He’s tempted, so very tempted, to go back down to Benny’s. But judging how the couple are reacting, he’s pretty sure that the silence has something to do with where he spent his day yesterday. And so, Dean remains at the table, his breakfast untouched and his head throbbing. 

He’s not tempted to switch on the radio; the noise would hurt his head too much. Nor does he want to sit in his room all day moping. Heaven knows, he spent enough time in there the first few weeks of his being home. In truth, Dean’s existence is, in his opinion, completely pointless. He doesn’t have a job to go to each day like Sam, he doesn’t have imminent parenthood to content him like Jess. He feels like a spectator on other people’s happy lives and he hates it. The house feels claustrophobic with happiness and it makes Dean’s stomach churn and his head pound and he finds himself pulling the front door open rather forcefully, and descending the porch steps.

Cold, refreshing air hits him immediately, the coastal breeze coming in from the beach down below. He’s not sure what compels him to decide to go down there, but he finds himself manoeuvring himself and his stick towards the haphazard steps, peering down. Shit, he’s going to regret this, and he’s not even going to think about trying to climb back up. But Dean decides that if he walks down sideways, putting his stick down on the step below him before moving, he should be able to get down onto the beach. Either that, or he’s going to slip right into the side of the cottage at the bottom. But hey, life sucks, right?

He takes a deep breath, before lowering himself onto the first rickety step. He’s not even sure these things will take his weight, never mind him being able to get down. Gradually though, he climbs lower and lower down the steep cliff, and it’s only when he gets halfway that his leg starts to shake from underneath him, struggling to carry him the rest of the way. 

Dean hisses with determination and frustration. He’s going to get down there, regardless of the pain, and he’s frustrated that he’s gone from being so able bodied to not even being able to go down some freaking stairs. 

Gritting his teeth, Dean takes another step. And then another. It’s slow and tedious and damn, he’s definitely not going to be able to move for a while, but twenty minutes later, he reaches the cottage at the bottom of the stairs, and looks out from its dilapidated decking. Whoa. It’s not like Dean’s never seen the sea; he and Sam had lived in places that had been by the seaside. But they had always been teeming with tourists, with deckchairs and families and shit, so they’re rarely been able to go. 

But the beach at the bottom of his brother’s house is wild and unkempt, angry and completely raw; the cliffs surrounding the small cove are jagged and orange, and when Dean looks up, he can see the tufts of long grass looming over the top of his head. The seagulls shriek and cry from nests that have been built in the side of the rocks. This piece of land seems completely untouched, unspoiled by humans and left for nature to reclaim it. It makes the descent of the stairs entirely worth it. 

Dean manages the last couple of steps down onto the beach before sitting down on the decking, testing its strength before he does so. He stares out at the water, a sense of relief washing over him. This was his little place. He knows for a fact that Sam doesn’t come down here, uninterested in the beach and the mess and the effort he would have to exude to come down here and sort it out, and he knows that Sam would never let Jess come down here, not in her condition. So Dean silently dubs this his space, and eases his boots off of his feet, quickly followed by his socks. 

After a couple of hours, Dean likes the beach, he decides. He likes the roar of the waves over the seagulls, and he likes the way the sand feels between his toes. Hell, he doesn’t mind the smell of seaweed because the air is so pure and raw that it knocks the breath out of him. He enjoys the way the sky can vary; dark clouds causing raging water, contrasting with the blue skies and serenity of the gentle lull of the tide. Dean likes that it’s so different from the war, so different from the home he shares with Sam and Jess. At the beach, he’s at peace, and he doesn’t have to pretend to be something he absolutely is not. 

There are no expectations here, Dean thinks to himself, there is nothing to dull the mood because there is no-one else here. Maybe that’s the problem; Dean can longer tolerate people. Sure, he wasn’t the biggest fan of them to begin with – his real love in high school was fixing up cars at the local garage, nothing but the Beach Boys to disturb him. Maybe he should get back into that, a way to distract him from the pounding thoughts in his head. 

He watches as the tide begins to pull out, exposing the sodden sand and the odd tiny shell. Dean ponders what would happen if he just kept walking – just his legs carrying him into the depths of the ocean, for him never to be seen again. Surely death would be a much more promising aspect. That being said, he probably would just die anyway because his leg would stop him from getting very far.

Eh, Dean won’t kill himself. There has to be a reason he didn’t die when the bullets hit him.

***

It honestly takes a few hours for boredom to hit. As much as Dean’s enjoying the solitude, he finds that about lunchtime the silence is becoming too much and his thoughts are starting to make his head hurt. He heaves himself to his feet, limping over to the decking by the cottage where he’s left his stick. Then he looks at the door of the cottage, an idea forming in his head. 

Sam had mentioned that the cottage had been empty for years; before the house had even been built apparently. The rickety old door seems to be hanging from its hinges anyway, no lock at least. Dean pushes it gently, worried that the thing might fall over and hit him. But it swings open, creaking ominously as it does so. Cobwebs hang in the doorframe, causing Dean to duck to avoid getting a face-full of spiders. He’s surprised by the inside though; it’s relatively in okay condition. There’s a lot of dust and shit, but he thinks with a good clean, this place could be liveable.

Dean limps tentatively into the main room of the cottage, looking around properly. The cottage seems to consist of a main room and a small kitchen off to the side. It’s void of any furniture but the wooden floorboards creak under Dean’s feet and he’s momentarily concerned that he might fall through the floor. He squints and zones in on the small, wireless radio sitting in the corner, as though someone previously had been working on the cottage before. 

A grin flits over his face as he picks it up, flicking at the dial and huffing out a laugh when a static version of some song fills the room. Well, his afternoon may well get a bit better if he’s got some music to entertain him; his headache is long gone, disappearing with the fresh air. 

Dean hobbles into the kitchen, arching an eyebrow at the cluttered surfaces, covered in pots and pans and various other kitchen paraphernalia. Whoever had lived here before had obviously left in a rush. Strange. In the cupboards, were old cans of spam and pickled onions, and a few others that didn’t seem to have labels. Just as he was about to leave with his radio, Dean spots a bottle in the corner, very dusty but the contents discernible. 

Scotch.

Smirking, Dean grabs the neck of the bottle – the fact that it’s half full has no bearing on him – and makes his way back out onto the beach. He realises that this is going to be even better than he’d previously thought. Then, setting the wireless on a rock, he stands with his stick, knocking back a swig of the drink and smiling faintly. There’s a lot to be said about Dean’s venture out into the outside world. Before today, the only time he had left the house willingly was when Jess insisted that he come grocery shopping, or when he went to Benny’s. Apart from that, he’d spend all day staring at the wall in his room, or watching the tiny television in the good room.

But today, right now, Dean can honestly say that he’s done something productive. And as he steadily makes his way through his bottle, and the sun sets lower and lower in the sky, he doesn’t even notice the cold setting in, the fire in his belly more than enough to see him through the evening. He tuned the radio hours ago, dancing around to the music the best that his leg will let him. He ignores the pain – hell, a little pain is nothing when you’re happy, right? – singing to the heavens as a familiar haze settles over his eyes.

It’s not drunk drunk. It’s happy drunk. He’s not inebriated to the point that he’s passing out on the floor, but it’s enough to give him a gentle buzz as well as effectively acting as a pain killer. But as darkness falls, he doesn’t notice Jess making her way down the steps until she’s standing on the decking. When he does manage to make out her figure – it’s getting dark and Dean doesn’t really know if he’s hallucinating or actually seeing his sister-in-law – but the first thing that springs to his mind, is not “holy shit, Jess, you should not be going down those stairs!”

“Dance with me, Jess!” Dean shouts, bottle of scotch in his hand, grinning as the wireless belts out Jimi Hendrix, volume loud enough to be heard over the rushing water of the sea. Jess stands at the bottom of the stairs, and in the dwindling light, Dean thinks she’s definitely smiling at him. Shaking her head in disbelief, but definitely smiling. She crosses the sand towards him, putting both hands out for him to take. Her girlish laugh contrasts with the blaring music, and Dean can’t help but beam. 

“Look at you, smiling,” Jess comments, swaying to the music the best she can with the swell of her stomach. She’s right; he’s in the high before he crashes to the ground. But’s happy right now, and that’s all that matters. It might not be music that Jess necessarily wants to listen to, but she’s definitely going with it, holding Dean’s hands as they move across the sand. 

In his happiness, he drops his bottle. But, really, Dean doesn’t give a shit. He may be happy but it’s the first time he’s actually made someone smile in the last few months. And that fucking counts for something, right? He spins her around, careful not to drop her into the sand, but laughing all the while, rolling his neck as he feels the chill of the night hitting his skin like tiny needles.

But when it gets really dark, when the moon is high in the sky, and they’re both panting on the sand, Jess looks up at him, her eyes bright.

“I think it’s time to go home, Dean,” she murmurs softly. Dean blinks; it’s not his home. In that moment, he realises that his home is a completely different place from the house that he shares with Sam and Jess. He doesn’t know where home is, but he knows it’s definitely not there. And it’s not a sad thought, he reckons as he helps Jessica up the steps (though, it’s a little bit of both; two people of limited mobility making their way up some thin ass steps was never going to be a quick process), but it’s just the truth of the matter. He can’t stay there forever, and once he’s back on his own two feet, it would be time to look for somewhere of his own.

To be lonely once more.

Neither of them notice Sam standing on the porch until they’re both halfway across the garden. He’s standing there, anger looming in the air, arms folded across his chest and his face thunderous. When he sees them looking his way, he steps down from the porch. But instead of looking pissed at both Dean and Jess, Sam’s rage seems to only be focused on his brother. They meet him in the middle, Jess still holding Dean’s hand from hauling him up the stairs.

“Get inside, Jess,” Sam says, never taking his eyes off of Dean. 

“Sam, do-”

“Get inside, Jessica,” Sam growls, glancing down at her. Jess visibly wilts, looking from him to Dean and back to Sam, shaking her head in disgust. She pointedly squeezes Dean’s hand, and all Dean wants to do is grip her for support. The expression on his brother’s face is a sobering one, and all delight of the evening he’s had is completely squashed. Then, Dean realises, he’s scared of his brother. He’s scared of what Sam is about to do. And that surprises him; even before the war, Dean Winchester was scared of nothing. And then once he’d been discharged, he was still scared of nothing.

Jess slips into the house, slamming the porch door shut behind her. She was mostly definitely pissed off; Jess was all about the silent closing of doors, proclaiming that it was a negative way to live in a house. Hell, Dean agreed with her most of the time; slamming of doors regularly set off a panic attack. Not that that stopped Sam on a regular basis. 

He probably did it on purpose.

“Sammy, what the hell-”

“My name,” Sam snaps through gritted teeth, “is not Sammy. It is Sam, and you’ll show me some damn respect in my own house.”

Dean frowns. 

“Huh?”

“Jess is my wife, Dean. Stay the fuck away from her.”

Dean wants to laugh, but he’s pretty sure Sam might hit him. Instead, he shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

“Trust me,” Dean mutters, “you can keep your wife. Besides, ever think she’s lonely while you’re working? And when you’re actually here, you pay no attention to her?”

“What happens between Jess and I, has nothing to do with you, Dean. You’re a guest in our house, and you’re free to leave at any point.”

Dean sighs, raking a hand through his hair dejectedly. A guest. Great. He can think of worse things he had been called, but this one stung the most. 

“I get it, Sammy- Sam. But I definitely do not like Jess that way. At all. You see the girls I used to bang?” His attempts at humour seem to have completely bypassed Sam, because he looks ready to wrap his fingers around Dean’s neck. “Look, Jess is definitely not on my radar. She’s pretty an’ all, but she doesn’t exactly get my dick go-”

“Do not finish that sentence, Dean,” Sam snarls. “She is my wife, and at the moment, she is barely your sister-in-law. No more dancing on the beach.”

Barely his sister-in-law? The hell did he mean by that? But he’s not going to ask about that at the moment. All he can do is nod his head numbly, realising that it’s probably the best to just agree with Sam and leave it at that. He hopes that it’s not going to spark an argument between him and Jess, because Sam probably only has to look at her scathingly and she’ll burst into tears. 

“Got it loud an’ clear,” Dean sighs, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “We done here? Only, I’m tired.” He stops short of saying that it’s been the sea air and the dancing that caused his exhaustion, but it’s definitely implied. Dean also resists the temptation to hit his shoulder off Sam’s as he goes past, walking up the steps the best he can; the dancing has made his leg seize up painfully, and although he wants to head straight to his room, he knows that if he doesn’t pop a painkiller, he’s going to lie awake wishing he had.

Dean limps towards the kitchen, trying to ignore the door slamming again as Sam comes through it and, damn, he’s praying that Sam doesn’t want to continue the argument, but thankfully, Sam heads into another room – possibly his study, and slams another freaking door. Wincing, Dean slides the door of the kitchen open, taken aback by Jess sitting at the small table. Her eyes are red rimmed and puffy, clear indicators that she’s been crying. She looks up when Dean comes in, her lip trembling.

“I’m really sorry, Dean, I shouldn’t have gone inside, I didn’t kn-”

“Jess, it’s fine.” Dean reaches into his cupboard, shaking out his pain pills, contemplating if a double dose will halt the ache in his leg completely, rather than just dull it. He shakes the thought away though; he wants to be completely coherent if Sam’s being a douche. Not that he thinks he’ll do anything to Jess; Dean doesn’t doubt that his brother loves his wife, but it’s a given that his sudden affinity for temper tantrums will upset her majorly.

“No, it’s not fine, Dean!” Jess exclaims, looking up at him. “He should be glad that you’re getting somewhere, not shooting you down! I just don’t understand what his deal is-”

“He thinks I want to break up your marriage,” Dean replies flatly, knocking back his tablets. “Which I don’t, by the way, just in case you were thinking that too.”

Jess shakes her head.

“Of course I don’t think that! God, Dean, I just want you to be happy! Lord knows, that’s what you deserve. Out there, on the beach, that’s the happiest I’ve seen you ever. The first time I’ve seen you really smile; I just don’t know why Sam is so against that.”

Dean snorts, casting his gaze to the linoleum beneath his boots.

“Yeah, I don’t know why Sam is a lot of things now,” he mutters darkly.

 

1965:

It’s not until a few days later that Dean speaks to him again. It’s been a difficult week and Castiel has definitely come off worse from it. He’s been pushed to the limits, worked until his body has hit a wall and then some. Cas just hopes that his platoon never gets deployed because he is most certainly going to end up dead or, worse, getting someone else killed. But from the way the Lieutenants talk (not even to the privates, just snatches of conversation here and there), Cas suspects that they’re close to it. The war has been raging on and the death toll, apparently, is growing higher and higher. Last he heard, the French had been obliterated.

Once again, Cas is lying on his bunk, body so sore that he’s a bit worried that if he rolls over to sleep he may just fall onto the floor. How the hell was he going to do any good if he could barely make it through a day without collapsing in a heap at the end of it? Surely there should be some progress in his fitness levels? He wasn’t the most unfit person in the platoon but, my goodness, he’s definitely not the fittest. 

“Hey, kid?”

Cas frowns, looking up from his inner whingeing session. Dean’s standing at the door of the barrack, a faint smile on his face. This is so embarrassing. Already, he can feel the comparisons starting; Michael never did this, Michael was so much manlier than he is, Michael was the best fucking soldier ever. Okay, so maybe the last bit was perhaps a little exaggerated. But before he’d enlisted, all he’d freaking heard was how he was following in his brother’s footsteps, which, incidentally, were so big that there was no hope of Castiel ever filling them.

Also…kid? He couldn’t have been that much younger than Dean, if not the same age. Kid? Really?

“Um, yeah?”

“You okay?”

Puzzled by the attention, Cas tries to right himself on the bed, attempting rather desperately to ignore the burning sensation in his torso. If he didn’t come home with muscles like the ones he saw on the men on the front of his mother’s books, then he would be bitterly disappointed. Now that he sat upright, Castiel takes in Dean’s figure, relaxed and at ease. He’s so different from when he’s acting as a Lieutenant, although, he is often accused of being the softer one. And now he looks at Castiel with a faint smile on his face.

“How you gettin’ on, kid?” he asks, moving into the barrack slightly. His boots scuff the slabbed floor, a white t-shirt tucked into his regulation pants, tight against the muscles that Cas would love to have. 

Castiel shrugs, looking at his hands. There’s so much dirt under his fingernails.

“Alright, I guess.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Dean says, nodding his head. “It’s always hard when you start. Even Michael found it difficult.” Cas looks up at that, his brows crinkling in disbelief.

Dean lets out a small chuckle.

“We were in the same regiment when we started; went through it all together. Your brother was a hard-ass.

“Y’know, we used to tease Michael about being from uptown,” Dean chuckles, running a hand through his newly shorn hair. “He spoke proper, you know? Like you do.” Dean shakes his head, grinning at the past and making Cas’ stomach knot itself into a pretzel. “But, uh, he was a good guy. Brave. Sometimes a little too harsh on the newbies, but his heart was in the right place.”

Cas snorts; Michael. Harsh. Hell, it had been said so many times, it was a wonder he hadn’t adopted it as a title. Michael didn’t do failure. He didn’t do failure, or weakness, or anything that makes a man any lesser than himself. And for the most part, Cas could brush it off, pretend not to care when Michael snapped about his art or bitched him out for not liking sport. Sometimes, though, he wishes he could have been an only child.

“Do you…have any siblings,” he asks hesitantly, looking up through his lashes at Dean. 

“Hell, yeah!” Dean exclaims, searching in his breast pocket for something, before brandishing a heavily folded photo and shoving it beneath Castiel’s nose. Blinking, the younger man looks down at the photo, smiling faintly at the content. Dean, standing grinning, his arm round whom Cas could only presume was his…younger brother? He couldn’t really see the resemblance between the two boys; from what he could make out from the black and white quality, Dean’s brother had dark hair and dark eyes, but he was looking up at Dean with the utmost admiration. It was an old photo, Dean looked no more than eighteen, his hair longer and sticking up at odd angles, ruffled but still looking good. 

“It’s the worst thing about being enlisted,” Dean remarks, looking down at the photo, even though Castiel suspected he had looked over it many times before. “Leaving Sammy behind. He was at Stanford, you know? Smart as hell. Gonna do great things.” Dean smiles proudly, but Cas notices the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and although he wants to ask, he doesn’t feel it’s his place. Instead, he lets Dean bask in how smart his little brother is, and finds himself smiling too, Dean’s lopsided grin infectious.

“C’mon, rookie, I got some smokes and Maine says he wants to quit; you comin’?” The suggestion is so far from what Castiel was expecting, that he stares at Dean, hoping that he hadn’t misheard him. But Dean is staring at him with a puzzled expression. “You never…smoked before?”

Cas shakes his head, cheeks burning. He was so sheltered; he finds that more and more each day, surrounded by men who had experienced life at its hardest. He had heard rumours about some of the men having been in prison, others who had been thrown out and living on the streets. He had been careful not to mention his privileged upbringing, although he’s not overly sure how much Michael had divulged to Dean during the days they had served together.

“No,” Cas eventually mumbles, pretty sure the tips of his ears are going red.

Dean smirks.

“I’ll teach you, kid. C’mon.”

Castiel stumbles to his feet, following Dean out of the barracks and round the side of it, out of view from the rest of the troops. Then, he takes the small box of cigarettes from his top pocket, the same pocket he took Sammy’s photo from (Cas wonders if he keeps the things he loves the pocket over his heart, then dismisses himself for being too freaking soppy), and pulls one out. 

“You know how to do it?” Dean’s lips twitch, fishing a battered Zippo from his pant pocket. Cigarette between his lips, he flicks the lighter into life, a warm yellow flame suddenly igniting the end of the…smoke? Was that what Dean called it?

“Um, no,” Castiel says distractedly, entranced by the dancing light in Dean’s hand. He flicks the Zippo shut suddenly, the end of the cigarette burning innocently. He watches as Dean takes a deep breath of it, his chest falling inwards as he inhaled, before blowing outwards, smoke rings drifting lazily into the air before disappearing in front of Castiel’s face.

“Now you’re showing off,” Cas remarks, surprised by his sudden bravery. He notices Dean’s eyes light up at the comment, crinkling at the corners as he slips the cigarette from between his lips and holds it out to Castiel, smirking.

“Have a go, kid,” he says.

Castiel hesitantly takes the cigarette between his fingers, looking down at it. His mother dismisses smokers as common, and wrinkles her nose at the thought of them. His father on the other hand, takes pleasure in smoking fat cigars in the company of the wealthy, a smug grin on his face. He often finds that his mother finds everything she’s not interested in doing as common. He remembers that they had had an au pair – not the first, he might add, there had been a few growing up – who spoke of racism, and sexism, and the injustices of the world. She spoke in a strong, Louisiana drawl, with dark eyes and a kind face. He wasn’t stupid; she was one of many of the black maids they had. It was rare that there was anyone white employed at the house. But Missouri would sit with Cas for hours helping him with homework. 

She was probably one of the reasons Castiel had turned out differently from Michael. He remembers wishing that Missouri would be his mother. Then one day he came home from school, and she was no longer there. He knew better than to quiz his mother about it but, God, he had been heartbroken. He’d cried for a week and refused to come out of his room. 

Cas puts the end of the cigarette in his mouth; it’s illicit and forbidden and a thrill of excitement runs through Castiel at the thought of what his mother would say if she were to find out.

“You’ve gotta breathe deeply? Like, inhale deep into your chest, otherwise you’re gonna-” Cas splutters violently, almost retching as the smoke hits him the wrong way. “-choke.”

He feels Dean pat him on the back, and he definitely, absolutely tries to ignore how warm his hands are. When Castiel has finished hacking up, he looks at Dean, cheeks red from the violence of it all. 

“You gotta drag it deep into your chest,” Dean instructs. “Try again.” He sounds so like a Lieutenant that Castiel straightens up and raises the cigarette back to his lips, pulling in a deep breath just like Dean told him to. This time, although it still feels strange, Cas doesn’t cough quite as much; he mere splutters for a moment before looking back at Dean with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

“Well done, kid.” Dean gently takes the cigarette back. “Don’t think we’ll catch on a forty-a-day habit, will we?” Instead of mocking, it sounded playful and Cas shot him a brief smile. He was absolutely, no way, going to start smoking at all. The thought of inhaling and coughing like that again, made his chest ache in sympathy.

“Sammy can’t stand smoking; he’s super into that new-age health shit.”

Cas nods, pretending to know what “new-age health shit” is. All he knows about food is that his mom gets someone else to make it each evening. Dean shakes his head at the thought of it. 

“When we were growing up, we lived in diners; my dad wouldn’t do the cooking thing, like, ever. Guess he wanted a change from that.”

“My mom hates cooking,” Cas helpfully supplies because, hey, it’s true, though maybe not to the same degree as Dean’s father. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Cas finds himself the most relaxed he’s been since he enlisted. The weight of anxiety seems to unwrap itself from his chest slightly, and he watches as Dean puffs out his rings of smoke from his lips, the pair of them smiling as the air captures them.

“Everyone’s talking about them shipping us out,” Castiel mumbles at last. “Is that true?” Dean shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“It was always going to happen,” he replies, as though it’s no big deal at all. “Half the kids here only signed up because they wanna be part of the big war.” Dean snorts. “They’re the ones who’ll be dead within a week. You can always tell the ones who are gonna survive.”

Bile rises up Castiel’s throat, because he’s not sure if he wants to know whether Dean thinks he’s going to be dead or alive at the end of this. However, Dean smiles faintly down at him. 

“Relax. It’s the cocky ones that get hit, the ones that believe they’re invincible. Think you’re safe, kid.” 

Castiel is so relieved that he doesn’t even take offence at being called a kid.

“Um, Deano,” a voice rings out, ruining the moment Castiel thought they were having. “You could have invited me for a smoke?” Cas lifts his head, only to see an indignant Eddie Maine looking at Dean with a raised eyebrow. “C’mon? You chose a rookie over me?”

Dean flushes pink, bowing his head and throwing the butt of the cigarette onto the ground, stomping on it with his boot. Castiel frowns, looking at Maine curiously.

Had Dean not said Maine had quit smoking?


	4. The Realisation

Chapter 4

1966:

For the first time since leaving the war, Dean feels properly scared. It knots in the pit of his stomach, squeezing his insides to the point that he aches. He’s been standing outside Castiel’s house for the best part of half an hour, and he’s pretty sure that the neighbours are starting to get suspicious. He can almost feel the curtain twitchers’ beady eyes on the back of his head, quietly wondering what the strange male in the middle of the street is doing. 

Because Dean definitely looks out of place. He should have known that someone as entitled as Castiel wouldn’t be living in a run-of-the-mill, two up, two down. No, Castiel lives in the affluent area in town, the rich green leafy suburbs, full of houses of families. It seems strange that a single man would choose to live somewhere like this, but, Dean realises with a pang of regret, that he doesn’t really know what is strange for Cas anymore.

He doesn’t want to knock on the door.

God, he freaking wants to knock on that door.

Dean’s mouth feels dry, as though he’s been swilling sand from the beach in it. What was there to say? After all this time? There were no words that Dean could muster that could ever convey how much he regrets how they left things.

No, Dean thinks, starting to turn away from the white picket fence, there was nothing to say anymore-

“Dean?”

Dean whips around, eyes swelling to twice their normal size. Castiel stands not even ten feet away from him – how had he gotten that close without Dean realising? – carrying a brown paper bag of groceries in his arms, his dark brows furrowed.

“I-” Dean rasps before clearing his throat. “You gave me your address.” Already, Dean feels lame. Of course Castiel knows he had given Dean his address. Why couldn’t he have just said “hello” or words to that effect?

“Three weeks ago,” Castiel replies shortly, moving up the path and putting a key into the lock. “I gave you my address three weeks ago.” Dean visibly wilts, not moving. He thinks that it might be a little presumptuous to assume that he was welcome in Cas’ house and it’s the last thing he wants to do.

Castiel pushes the front door open, and for a minute, Dean thinks that it may just get slammed in his face. Then, Cas turns around, arching his eyebrow.

“Are you coming in or are you just gonna stand out there like a bad smell?”

Dean feels his cheeks burn, limping into the house and shutting the door after himself. He watches Castiel move towards what Dean can only assume is the kitchen, while Dean himself looks around the hallway. 

It’s distinctly bare of any homely touches. He thinks of Jess and Sam’s home, and the pictures that line the walls, and the china and ornaments that cover several surfaces, their wedding photo acting like a center piece in their cosy living room. Castiel’s house in comparison is bland and bleak and so un-Cas that it makes Dean swallow. 

Had he done this to Cas? Had he made the once enthusiastic, young artist become bitter and content with living in a world robbed of color?

“Do you want coffee?” Cas’ voice echoes slightly and Dean hobbles towards the kitchen, which is equally as boring as the hall. Cas is slowly putting groceries away, vehemently not looking at Dean, who stands in the doorway awkwardly, not sure of how he should place himself. 

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles in response, “please.”

Cas fills the kettle with water before all but slamming it down on the gas burner, his face twisted into a grimace.

“You should probably sit,” he muttered darkly, pulling out two mugs. “See your leg is still fucked.”

Hearing Cas swear so readily surprises Dean further – maybe he should stop expecting Castiel to share any features of his Cas – and he silently pulls out one of the white plastic chairs next to the table. For a moment, neither of the men say anything, and Dean wonders how fast he could move towards the door to avoid a scene.

“How’d you end up here?” Dean finally asks, and although it’s not his most pressing question, it’s one he’s intrigued to find out the answer to. How the hell had privileged Castiel Novak ended up here?

Cas snorts, finally turning around and leaning against the kitchen counter. It’s then that Dean notices the scar running down the side of his face from the tip of his right eyebrow, all the way down to the corner of his mouth, curving and cupping the hollow of his cheek.

“Michael was going to move here,” Cas replies shortly, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “Michael, you know? My brother?”

“I know who he is, Cas-”

“Surprising. You forgot me pretty quickly.”

“Castiel, I didn’t forget-”

“Your wife is very beautiful,” Castiel continues, in a blasé tone that, at the same time, drips with accusatory venom, cold blue eyes burning into Dean. 

Dean frowns, lost. Wife? Wife? His eyes widen in realisation.

“She’s my sister-in-law!” he exclaims. “I live with my brother and his wife!”

Castiel seems to sober for a moment, this information obviously taking him by surprise. Then, his face settles back into the passive expression he had been wearing previously, and Dean feels his stomach sink once more.

“It didn’t work out with the fiancée then?”

At the mention of Lisa, Dean swallows, raking his hand through his hair.

“No,” he replies shortly. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to elaborate. Talking about Lisa is almost as traumatising as talking about his relationship with Castiel. Maybe it’s just a sign that Dean was meant to spend the rest of his life alone, drinking himself into nothingness.

“Guess it’s hard to sleep with a female after so readily fucking your subordinate.”

“Jesus Christ, Castiel-”

This was going the wrong way. This was not how Dean had thought this conversation would go. But he takes in Castiel’s blazing fury and he knows, he fucking knows that the majority of this is down to him. How could it not?

“After you were sent home,” Cas mutters with a stoic expression, changing the subject so quickly that Dean thinks he’s zoned out, “there was an attack on the camp.” Dean feels a lump rise in his throat. He doesn’t like where this is going. He doesn’t like where this is going at all.

“Survivors were minimal.”

“Shit, Cas.”

Cas says nothing. Instead, his hand grips the handle of the kettle, and it shakes very slightly in the dim light, stainless steel casting shadows dancing across the wall. Dean wants to reach out, cover Castiel’s hand with his own, but something pulls him back. They’re different now. They are not the same men who went into the war. Cas is not the same man that he left behind. There are so many things that have been left unsaid, and Dean doesn’t know where that leaves him to stand.

“Eddie,” Dean says suddenly, the man’s face flashing in his mind. “Eddie made it out though?”

Castiel turns to Dean with a solemn expression before shaking his head once. Dean feels bile rise up his throat, hot and painful as it threatens to expel.

“He had a kid on the way,” Dean breathes, sinking shakily into the sofa. 

“Others had families too, Dean, not just Eddie.” Dean’s head snaps up in annoyance, glaring up at Castiel as he holds a mug in his hand. He wants to hit Castiel, he realises. And that thought scares him. Because Cas has been his light in this never-ending darkness; Castiel Novak has been his prize at the end of this race that had quickly become his life. Dean would not admit to anyone that the reason he keeps going is his love for Cas. 

And now Castiel is looking at him with indifference. Passive, almost. As though he’s forgotten the nights they spent together, and what they had been through. 

“That’s all you gotta say?” Dean questions, his eyes never leaving Cas’. 

“That’s all there is to say.”

Dean makes a noise of disbelief, pushing himself to his feet once more. 

Cas snorts derisively, and Dean feels a pang of longing for the guy he fell for back in Vietnam. He craves the naïve, generally easy-going Cas who actually spoke to Dean like he actually cared. Instead, he’s confronted by the cold reality of leaving Castiel behind. It’s hardened him; Dean can see it in his face. There are deep set lines in the corners of his eyes, marring once smooth skin. There’s a “V” shape resting between his eyebrows from frowning in what seems to be his resting face. There’s no longer a brightness in his eyes, devoid of any emotion at all, really. He just stares with a blankness; a reserved, indifferent look. 

“Cas, I’m sorry,” he breathes quietly. 

Castiel rolls his eyes, shaking his head as though it’s a ridiculous statement. 

“Sorry means Jack-shit to me, Winchester. The only reason I passed on my damn address so I could have a bit of fucking closure; you don’t get to be sorry. You knew exactly what you were doing when you outed me. 

“You think you’re the only one going through this, Dean?” Cas demands, his expression hardening once more. “You’re not the only one who’s suffering. You don’t get to judge what I can and can’t be like after I’ve watched so many men die. My brother died, Dean, how the fuck do you think that makes me feel? I was left out there while you went home to your fucking fiancée. Survival of the fittest, y’know? And…fuck, I was not the fittest.” Cas’ cheeks are red now, and Dean can feel his eyes narrowing.

“What happened, Castiel?” His voice shakes, but instead of being nervous, Dean is pissed. He can only imagine what some of the troops did to Cas if they found out about their relationship. Cas shakes his head defiantly, his stoic persona cracking as Dean sees the scared teenager who was thrown into war far too soon. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Cas.”

“You know what they do to fags in the military,” Cas hisses furiously. 

Dean sits there, dumbfounded. But what had he expected to have happened?

“Didn’t Eddie do som-”

“Eddie tried his best,” Cas muttered, slamming the kettle back onto the hob. “But soldiers are akin to animals and that’s that.”

“Jesus, Cas, I…I wanted to protect you from th-”

“No, you checked out, Dean! You fucked off back to America and left me there. You threw me to the fucking wolves and bailed. All to protect your dignity. Dean Winchester couldn’t possibly be labelled as a fag, could he? But Novak? Shit, his brother was the perfect soldier, wasn’t he? How the hell could simpering little Castiel be believed over bigshot Winchester? Screw you, Dean. Protect me? Ha. Protect yourself more like.” Castiel is panting now, his face blotched with color and his shoulders shaking in rage. Dean sits there dumbfounded, his actions weighing heavily on his shoulders. This was the guilt. The guilt he drinks away. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles, his eyes on the floor, already knowing that his words will rebuffed once more. He tries not to think about it daily, otherwise he’d go mad. However, when Dean had seen Castiel in the shop, and the way Cas had handed over the scrap of paper, Dean had foolishly thought that he had somehow forgotten the last words they had spoken to one another.

Dean was a fucking idiot.

“I don’t want your pity, Dean.”

“Damn it, Cas!” Dean shouts in frustration, slamming his palm against the table. “What do you want from me? I apologise, you throw it back in my face. I come to your house, after you give me your fucking address, and you throw me out. What the hell do you want from me?”

Cas is silent for a moment, and in that time, a ghost of the boy of he had been flashes across his face; pensive and unsure. Dean clings to it, hoping that there’s hope for him to come back.

“I had this whole conversation ready in my head,” Castiel mutters quietly. “Practised what I’d say to you when I saw you again. It’s gone now.” Cas looks at Dean, his shoulders wilted and expression dejected. 

“I’m sorry for what happened out there,” Dean manages to say evenly. “My head was all over the place.” Castiel merely nods, averting his gaze. They lapse into an awkward silence, the steady drip of the tap making Dean feel on edge.

“I’m gonna go,” Dean announces finally, pulling himself up onto his sore leg. He reaches for the stick, expecting Castiel to say something. Instead, the younger man stands with his eyes on the floor, jaw set. And that’s it, Dean realises. This was potentially the last time he would ever see Cas. He takes in a shaky breath, limping towards the door. 

Perhaps it’s a blessing, he tells himself as he makes his way towards the front door; Sam and Jess need never find out that he isn’t quite the war hero he was made out to be. Perhaps this is the closure that he needs to move on with his life. 

And still a part of Dean waits for the footsteps to come running up behind him, and he imagines Castiel’s fingers curling around his shoulder and pulling him back.

But nothing happens.

Instead, Dean pulls the door of the house open and steps out into the sun.

1965:

Cas knows he’s lucky. He knows that he’s lucky that his brother has a reputation that means that he, Castiel, is in with the better soldiers. It feels like high school; no-one had ever messed with him after finding out that he was youngest Novak, even though he was the sort to be picked on.

But still Cas hopes that they enjoy his company despite being Michael’s younger brother. He hopes that he’s at least got enough personality that the others rate him on himself, rather than his brother. He hopes, but he’s not convinced. Sure, there are no jeers or disgusted looks on their faces (thoughts of high school still made his skin prickle uncomfortably) however, Castiel can’t help but wonder if they’re all just really good at hiding their distaste.

He doesn’t voice this of course; what space do his slightly self-pitying thoughts have amidst a war? Hell, it was hardly “manly” behaviour to constantly be wondering about things such as this. But he can’t shake the feelings of inadequacy as hard as he tries to do so.

“How you gettin’ on, Novak?” Dean asks him one day, blowing rings of smoke from between his lips. He’s lying on his back in the dry dirt, his eyes closed as the hot sun rains down on them. Maine is in the same position, his mouth hanging open slightly as he sleeps. It’s been a long day; they’ve lost contact with another platoon and it was touch and go whether they would be the ones to be sent in next. The anticipation had been too much for Castiel, and he had found himself on the brink of a panic attack.

“Uh, fine,” Cas mutters, casting his eyes over the map he’s supposed to be studying. It’s hard to concentrate in this heat, when his t-shirt clings to him, damp with sweat. He doesn’t want to remove it though, self-conscious of his scrawny physique when surrounded by men such as Dean and Maine.

Especially Dean.

It’s not as though Castiel hasn’t seen him without a shirt on before – they were wandering around in such a hot climate that it was impossible not to have seen most of the men here topless. But it’s the first time Cas is in the position to actually see Dean, to take in the hard lines of his torso, the dusky pink of his nipples which contrast greatly with the tanned, freckled skin.

He’s incredibly aware of the way Dean’s muscles stretch with each tired breath he takes, and his eyes linger on the faded scars that cross over his chest. Castiel wants to know what happened, but he knows that it’s not appropriate. Hell, he’s already breaking the social norms by even spending time with Dean and Maine. 

“Sure? ‘Cause you weren’t lookin’ too hot this morning.”

Castiel’s cheeks flush pink, and he’s extremely grateful that the two men in his company both have their eyes closed. The thought of Dean noticing his weakness – being concerned enough to ask – makes him wilt. Because he doesn’t want to be known as Michael’s little brother, the weak one. He doesn’t even want to be known as Michael’s little brother, period.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Tired.”

Dean snorts, opening one eye.

“We’re all tired, Novak; gotta pull yourself together.”

A lump rises in Castiel’s throat. 

You’re so pathetic.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I’m not getting’ atcha.” Dean sits up, his stomach muscles flexing. “It’s hard to be away from your family, I get that. And you’re gonna see some scary shit. Just don’t let any of the guys see you like that; they’ll only use it to hurt you.”

Castiel blinks, taken aback. 

“Wh- Oh…thanks.”

Dean flashes him a lopsided grin, lying back on the ground as he tosses his cigarette butt away.

“No problem, kid.”

Cas sighs, looking back down at the map. He’s ridiculous, of course. Searching for the approval of one of his superiors. He’s lucky that he’s not shouted at and humiliated like the rest of the guys. But there’s something different he feels towards Dean, something he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s less of wanting his approval and more of…wanting his affection? Yes, maybe that was it. Starved of any real affection, he’s immediately latched onto the nearest possible kindness.

If that doesn’t scream dysfunctional child, he doesn’t know what does.

If this was at home, his mother would have shipped him off to the first therapist in the phonebook. She was always a firm believer in getting rid of behaviours such as these. But then, she’d never really had that problem with any of Castiel’s brothers; Michael was the prodigy, a war hero like their father; Lucifer was the business man, stoic and brooding but an upstanding member in all the right social circles; Gabriel was his mother’s favourite, charismatic and charming and engaged to the daughter of an esteemed oil tycoon. 

And then there was Castiel. The youngest. The one who hadn’t quite found his place yet. They had thought that the military would straighten him out, cause him to choose what he wanted to do. Perhaps they hadn’t quite factored in that he could in fact die from this lesson.

Perhaps they believed that he, like Michael, was invincible.

He turns away from Dean and Maine at that point, because he can feel his eyes burning and his hands trembling. Pathetic, really, crying over the childhood he never got and the expectations he had always been exposed to. 

Castiel spends the rest of the day alone. He scampers away from the rest of the men, citing that he needed peace to study the map in hands. In reality, he needs to get away for a bit. He needs to think and be clear headed because, in all honesty, dwelling on what was at home was only going to get him killed. 

It’s only when night falls that Castiel slips out from the tent, careful not to wake anyone who is already asleep. Over his shoulder, there’s a towel, and a bar of soap in his hand. Just like he avoids taking his shirt off in front of the others, he doesn’t want anyone to see his pallid skin under the water.

He’s being ridiculous, he reasons with himself, as he makes his way to the simple excuse for a shower; no other man would be staring at him long enough to pass comment on his skinny appearance. Nevertheless, there’s a feeling of joy at the thought of having a good, undisturbed scrub without anyone-

Castiel’s eyes widen in a mixture of awe and horror. Because, standing under the cold water, wearing nothing, is Dean Winchester. His back is to Castiel, so he has no way of seeing the way the other man’s eyes are roaming over the movement of the muscles of his shoulders. No, Cas is entirely free to stare at the rivulets of water dripping down the tanned skin of his sergeant, reaching the curve of Dean’s ass as he rinses the short crop of dirty blonde hair on the top of his head. His legs are just far enough apart for Castiel to make out the heavy hang of his dick, flaccid from the temperature of the water, but still impressively large.

Cas’ mouth is dry with want, his own cock starting to stir- no, not starting. He’s hard with need and there’s fuck all he can do about it but back away from the showers without Dean noticing. Because all he needs is for Dean to turn around and notice Castiel staring shamelessly at him with a hard on. 

He swallows anxiously, backing away as quickly as he dares, practically sprinting back to his barrack once he’s round the corner. 

Dean had said he was going to see scary things out here. Castiel hadn’t thought the attraction to men was going to be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay! Life just got in the way of everything! but...here's another installment in this rather depressing fic! But it'll get cheerier...I think!


End file.
